I've Been Reading

Nowadays it seems that most schools have some sort of required reading for their students during the summer. Which is a good thing, what with all the competing interests for their time and attention. I didn't need such assignments as a kid. I loved to read and besides, television only had 3 channels. All my summer afternoons of reading blend into one general memory of dappled light, drunk bees and being on a blanket under a tree with a book.


A lifetime of reading for pleasure has altered somewhat in recent years. I've grown undisciplined. I hear about books, make mental notes to a mental reading list but somehow the most I manage is going to bed with a book and falling asleep after reading maybe a page. Consequently, it takes me a year to get through one or two books, where I used to manage at least one a month.

(I sorta kinda blame blogs for this dip in my reading cycle, despite the fact that most of the blogs I read qualify as literature).

I promised myself to read more this year and have used these summer months to really commit. The available time is generally first thing in the morning. We've had a mostly sunny summer thus far and the cool, dewy early morning is the best part of the day. I sit in one of the decrepit Adirondack chairs with my coffee, dew on my feet and bumbles already busy in the lavender, and take an hour or so for a dip into a book.

The summer began with 2 absolutely delightful books: We've Always Had Paris...and Provence by Patricia and Walter Wells and My Life in France by Julia Child. The obvious delightfulness owes to both being about France and food. What I didn't entirely expect was the pleasure of the author's voices. The Wells' book was an interesting collaboration: his voice is that of a journalist, hers is like a girlfriend chatting over cocktails. And Child, well, her actual voice is so iconic - I heard her as I read her words. In both cases I also received the surprise of inspiration. Both Pat and Julia hit on their passion and subsequent life calling later in life. It made me hopeful, especially as I consider how to keep going with the writing thing even after I sell my soul to The Man.

Then I read The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett, a historical novel about building cathedrals. This is a best selling book by a best selling author and when I finished it my primary thought was "Really?"

The story was compelling enough; I finished the book, after all. There was one character I liked very much. But what kept me engaged was the expectation of more...a more that never really came. The prose was not devastating, there were no "golden lines" or deep insights. The characters were, in the main, uncomplicated...fundamentally good or fundamentally evil and not much in between. It wasn't horrible, it just wasn't much of a stunner. In fact, at the end I thought, for the first time in a very long time, "Hell, I could write better fiction than this".

Then I re-read Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited. I have no intention of seeing the new movie. This story was filmed in a 1980 miniseries that is a quintessential and faithful rendering of the tale. Plus, it has Jeremy irons and Anthony Andrews. A 2 hour reinterpretation (which, from what I've read, strays far from the original text) strikes me - even with Emma Thompson - as a gigantic waste of celluloid. But I digress. I'm not going to see the movie because I loved the miniseries. I revisited Brideshead because it's something I have to do every year. This is one of my Top Ten All Time Favorite Books.

It also reminded me why I don't write fiction. Brideshead is, to me, a perfect book: deceptively simple in some ways but rich in description and characters. It is a book about grace and redemption and even though I know it practically by heart, it always offers up something completely new.

Yesterday, in 2 sittings, I polished off I Feel Bad About My Neck by Nora Ephron. I've seen all her movies (I think) but never read a one of her books. Hello? The Neighbor loaned it to me. She was a little "meh" about it, liked it well enough but... I, on the other hand, loved it. Ephron is funny and honest, she loves to cook. She is, perhaps, a little more gloomy about getting older than I am but she mostly addresses it in such an amusing way that it didn't make me feel bad. Of course, by the time I finished the book I had also pretty much decided I'd never write again myself because there was no point - an insecurity I'm prone to in the face of good writing but I usually get over it.

In fact, something that is already helping me get over it is a little project that requires me to read blogs. You'd think that would be the sweetest deal ever and it would be if I were reading your blogs. But I'm not. (I am, of course, but not for the project). Anyway, point is, I suspect you have no idea how much crap is out there. Seriously. Crappity crap crap. How did I manage to find all of you - with your gift for story telling, your humor, your insight? I was honestly under the impression that having found you I'd better stop while I was ahead. It wasn't just that I didn't want my blogroll to get out of control but really, I just couldn't afford to add any more "must reads" to my life. Turns out, all y'all are the creme de la creme; those "must reads" are far and few between. Oh, I'm finding them and some may even be revisited for my own pleasure later but lordy. You should seriously give yourself a pat on the back right now for adding worthwhile content to the blogosphere. Trust, you're doing a public service.

Now I'm going to get some water and take a break. And read.